abyssus abyssum invocat
by waltz2
Summary: ((the clan founder whispers to him: it'll take much more blood to fill the depth of your love for your little brother)) Itachi tried to save both Sasuke's life and the Uchiha's good name, but the price was steep. As it turns out, the abyss is even steeper. /dishonored!au, corvo!itachi, incestuous undertones
1. prologue

abyssus abyssum invocat:

summary: ((the clan founder whispers to him: it'll take much more blood to fill the depth of your love for your little brother)) Itachi tried to save both Sasuke's life and the Uchiha's good name, but the price was steep. As it turns out, the abyss is even steeper. / Dishonored!AU; Corvo!Itachi, incestuous undertones.

 _I disclaim any rights_

note: I've tried to mix and match the Dishonored plotline, the Naruto canon plotline and general Meiji era elements together in this story. I don't think people would've appreciated me just switching out Naruto characters with Dishonored characters so I've tried to create a new plot all together. There are quite some artistic liberties taken with and purple prose implemented in this story and I'm still working things out, smoothing things over. Feedback is very much encouraged and appreciated.

 _Prologue_

He crouches low on the gray-smoked roof tiles, hearing his own heartbeat and the muffled sound of the soles of his boots between his ears. The sallow surface of the full moon behind him threatens to swallow the teahouse whole, large and insatiable as it gnaws toothlessly on his silhouette. His maroon coat pools around his knees and the wooden sheath of his _katana_ thumps against his upper leg as he surveys the almost abandoned street below; some of the bright red lanterns are sagging on their wires and spilling their discolored light onto the mud in patches, there's some ambiance in the form of the clanking of clunky _geta_ , and the heat rises from the ground upwards together with the odor of sweat and oil and spices. The taste of the summer air is dry and stale on his tongue and the familiarity brings forth memories of _hakuto_ jelly in ceramic bowls, the soft flapping of a paper fan, the sweet-sounding laughter from a child's mouth.

In the distance loom the walls surrounding the brothel's compound and the slope of its main building's roof, curved gracefully and beckoning with the motive of their _kawara_. Its traditional style curiously fills the gap between the newly-built houses made of brick, stone and concrete. Konoha has been gradually changing since innovations trickled in from the west – gradually, because he remembers when electricity generated from bright blue whale oil was a novelty and when the menacing dog statues guarding the shrine were mechanized and fully operational; clumsy in movement until even those small flaws were minimalized by the time he was thirteen – but now it seems like the change happens all at once. He clenches his gloved hands into fists and exhales through his nostrils, but the hot air gets caught between his skin and the inside of his catlike mask.

There's the jingle of a bell as the paper doors of the teahouse slide open and he uses his gift to dematerialize into crows; wings and beaks tear apart the material of his coat, his head and hair, his legs and feet, and he feels his eyes burn red in his sockets like black coals flare in the _irori_ late at night, and the crows caw and croak out loudly as they flock over to the opposite apartment building. They constitute his slender frame as sleek black feathers become sleek black hair and the outline of his coat over his shoulders and the sleeves over his pale wrists. Some people are talking at the back of the building and he stealthily descends onto the roof of the lower backroom to eavesdrop on them. In the pocket of his coat, the heart he has been given by Madara croons in a dead man's voice (and the first time he heard this heart hum in Shisui's voice, his own heart nearly stopped), persuading him to get closer and closer because there's a _bijuu bone_ somewhere hidden in the vicinity.

" _Heh_ , you're gonna visit Yuuhi-san again, aren't you?" This is punctuated by a guttural laugh, the question mark only implied, rhetorical.

Shisui – _no, the heart-_ **no his heart** , is humming, steady and persistent at the bottom of his pocket, a comforting weight against his upper leg. He settles himself on the ledge, trusting his gut that something has to come out of this seemingly innocent conversation.

"What of it, Genma?" Comes with the low _sssht_ of a match being stricken, the content _ah_ of the first smoke. _Sarutobi Asuma_ – his eyes bleed from black to red, something wet and sticky slides down his cheek, the bloody manifestation of the mark.

Silence at first settles around the two like cigarette smoke, so poignantly there it's difficult to get around it. Then, the first exhale, a continuation of sorts in the form a stretched syllable.

" _Ah,_ just figured it must be expensive." Here, he imagines Genma must shift towards Asuma to add to the point he's trying to make; he can almost hear the rustling of his clothes, the grind of dirt under sandal soles. "But your father must keep you well-stocked."

Asuma scoffs, but offers no clear rebuttal aside from an ambiguous statement that captures his attention. _He threw me a bone_.

 **and the heart thumps wildly, a staccato beat in eight handclaps**.

He blinks slowly, and the blood is stuck to his lower eyelids as the red swirls back into the natural dark of his irises; and he categorizes this tidbit of information as something he must investigate after he's made sure Sasuke is saved, safe. Itachi Uchiha looks on towards the gate of the brothel, on towards the two foxes perched as brackets on each side of the opening, on towards whatever his new sense of sight could make him see.

Darkness was never as palpable, tangible. He doesn't remove his mask to dab at the dried blood in the groves along his cheeks, but he does press the mask closer to his skin, tries to push the air from between the polished _hinoki_ wood and his unbearably warm face. Bird wings, sharp-crooked, the low cawing from between smooth crow beaks, his body turned from whole to parts as Shisui's voice dwindles to a hoarse whisper and the heart rests restlessly once more.

"You know," Genma says as his gaze flits from Asuma stamping down the butt of his cigarette to the murder of crows flying over the compound, "They say you gotta be pretty crazy about a woman to love even the crows above her home."

.


	2. i

I originally planned to have one chapter detailing Itachi's prison break, but the world kept expanding and the words kept piling up so I'm going to have to do some chopping. I'm doing this my way of course but beware that the Dishonored and canon Naruto elements are purposefully strong. Like I mentioned before, I have no intention of copy/pasting characters into an entirely different plotline and world.

Without further ado however, the official first chapter of the story.

.

He hears the slosh of the broth, the hollow thud of the bowl on the cold uncomfortable floor, the unforgiving slide-shut of the sturdy door, heavy footfalls fading into nothingness, a suffocating stillness. Moonlight doesn't trickle through the chestnut-wooden bars, but falls inside in waves, slicing up the dark floor and the walls and himself in silvers and shadows, an involuntary phantasmagoria thrust upon him for the second time in but a week – _not even a week,_ he has counted his hours and his meagre meals dutifully, watched the slow trespassing of the sun and the moon and how their light falls upon the floor of his cell. Reluctantly, he pushes himself upright, using the wooden wall as support for the palms of his hands and his back, and trudges onwards over to his dinner.

His hair is unkempt, free from its usual ponytail and it cascades around his narrow shoulders, falls gently and feathery against his exposed collar bone as he sinks onto his knees and reaches for his chopsticks. The food tastes the same as the feel of ash on bare skin, but he swallows the undercooked vegetables down all the same. They've ordered for his execution he's been informed this morning and as a joke, the guards grabbed him by the arms and stripped him of his old Uchiha police corps uniform and dressed him up in a _kyokatabira_. He broke the right wrist of the guard who tried to snatch his mother's necklace from his neck. _Slayer of kin_ , they had spat at him in some sort of righteous fury, and he had taken the insult in stride as he deflected the following punishing blows. They got angrier and sloppier and eventually the warden (a position once belonging to his youngest uncle _before_ ) had to step in to resolve the scuffle.

Konoha had violently torn the Uchiha clan from its own borders in a preemptive strike Itachi had expected eventually but not anticipated when he'd returned from his diplomatic mission to Otogakure. He pushes his empty bowl back towards the sturdy door with the flat of his hand and the ceramic catches onto the uneven wooden paneling of the floor. His discussion with Danzō prior to his departure was as much a foreshadowing as an ill omen, like breaking the strap of a sandal or the tooth of a comb before a mission. Settling down against the wall opposite to the door again, he closes his eyes and exhales evenly, running down the recollections of the conversation for the umpteenth time since his imprisonment. It's easier than being devoured by his own guilt.

 _"An audience with Orochimaru?" He asks, trying to withhold his suspicion from his tone of voice, his carefully schooled features. His eyes narrow when his gaze falls upon the figure seated on his knees in front of him._

 _Steam wafts from their cups of_ kocha _, upwards to the ceiling of the gallery but never quite reaching their goal, instead dissipating into nothingness. Danzō ghosts his hand over the pale teapot, failing short of touching the clay handle as he instead reaches for the tray of rice crackers. He sets his mouth in a grim line before raising his head again and opting to stare directly at Itachi with calculating eyes. He doesn't grab anything to eat._

 _"There has been animosity for too long between our two villages. Orochimaru is a child of Konoha and a prodigial one at that." His words are cautious, both in choice as in intention. Nothing he says is meant as a comfort nor as an underlying reason. "We should consider mending our bonds the way we mend pottery." He refers to the method as_ kintsugi _, but Itachi sincerely doubts he of all people could be the trickle of gold to strengthen the broken relationship between the master scientist and his home village._

It was a ruse, he got his confirmation when confronted with a callous Orochimaru who was interested in his clan's history and some information on the new distillation methods of whale oil, but not at all interested in matters of diplomacy. His reception was courteous, as becoming one of his own rank. Itachi had been welcomed as heir of the prestigious Uchiha clan by Otogakure first and foremost, as captain of the Uchiha police corps and former-ANBU captain secondly, as representative of Konohagakure lastly. He tilts his head backwards and allows the moonlight to fall upon his face; giving his pale skin a more ghastly appearance. When he had returned from his diplomatic mission, there was this eerie feeling he couldn't shake off, as if someone had written his name in stark red ink right in front of his eyes. He remembers thinking _no, not yet, not now,_ as if maybe he could've pushed the entire thing away from him, from them.

 _There was silence then between the two of them. Itachi contemplates on how to take his leave without seeming too rude in the eyes of his better. Only the low clunk-clunk-clunk of the bamboo spout as the water gushes through and falls into the pond, and the sizzling of the electric wires attached to the outer walls ripple the quiet, ocassionally, lazily. The wires are half-hidden in shadows, half-concealed in the setting sunlight, attached to a power module with a half-empty tank of whale oil. The dark wooden beams holding up the roof of the gallery gleam in the warmth. Danzō brings his cup to his lips, closes his eyes and takes a short sip, before glancing over at the younger man in front of him again._

 _"It has come to my attention that there is some tension in the upper echelons of the Uchiha clan. You wouldn't be able to alleviate some of my worries, now would you, Itachi?" He gives him the most common of courtesies by attaching a_ san _to his name. Another dull clunk of the bamboo spout as it falls abruptly and taps the stone underneath it._

 _Itachi respectfully dips his head, avoids the inquiring gaze he is being subjected to and answers calmly, "Our clan elders have been most displeased with the Hokage's decision to ban worship of our clan founder at the main shrine of Konoha." His fingertips splay over the smooth surface of the low table as he continues, "And our relocation to the outskirts of the village years back, still does not sit well with many of the clan elders."_

 _Danzō hums in acknowledgement, a sound which resonates deep from within his chest and vibrates on in his throat. His lips thin into a line, almost thoughtfully. Itachi regards him warily with half-lidded eyes._

 _"The elder council did not make those decisions lightly, as you undoubtedly understand." There's an underlying notion in his tone of voice – a reproach; keep your tongue, boy. "Although Madara Uchiha was one of our village founders also, his most important role is reserved to remain an Uchiha ancestor and not a god of this region. As a village and a community, we should revere Senju Hashirama first and foremost." He says this with a sense of finality, an unspoken challenge. **–do you deny what i am saying, boy? can you?**_

 _Itachi picks up on how Danzō refrains from explaining the decision to relocate his clan to the outskirts but doesn't press the issue. Unlike his father, he knows how to subdue the Uchiha pride in conversation. Instead, he gives the other an inclination, a light well-meaning nod that says more than words how he understands. Konoha has slighted his clan and his clan is not to interpret it as such. How subtle the warning and how sharp it cuts, like every well-made blade._

 _"Your honesty graces you, and yet…" Danzō opens his paper fan and drags it down in one clean sweep, a gush of cool air ruffles the silk material of his_ yukata _. "I have heard there is talk of a coup." Another sweep, faster, a hint of anger in how his grip tightens on the handle and his knuckles turn white._

There are footsteps outside of his cell, growing louder and louder. They're heavy and deliberate, as if whoever nears wants to be heard, wants to alert Itachi of their arrival with the weight of their steps. His brows furrow together and reluctantly, he opens his eyes to watch the newcomer. Guards are less guarded in how they walk and there is no one left of his clan to visit him – _except._ What wistful thinking, he scolds his mind for having such hopes; there is no way his little brother would be able to visit him. The footfalls come to a tentative halt, a dark figure allows the moon to take up their negative space and obscure his features from Itachi's inquisitive gaze. When the dark figure comes closer, he can clearly see the mask the stranger is donning: a pastiche of Konoha's ANBU forces. This pulls forth his puzzlement and hooks his interest, sinkers him into believing something unprecedented is to happen. Something is pushed through the wooden bars, collides onto the paneling with a dull thud.

Itachi glances upwards again, but the stranger has disappeared and sure enough, the footsteps this time around are almost inaudible, a low grind of sandal soles on dirt. He frowns and has been told repeatedly by his mother how this makes the creases along his cheeks stand out more blatantly. Slowly, he makes his way over to the mysterious package, tests the shape carefully with his fingertips – a string tied around rough cloth, a shape so alike a blade or a rod, a piece of paper. Here, his investigating fingers halt and skim over the smooth paper. He unties the bow and turns the note over to the moonlight, squinting to read the characters in stark black ink.

 **We are the Akatsuki.**

 _"As clan heir, Shimura-san, I consider myself to be in the position to denounce such talk as baseless rumors." Itachi stresses the politesse in his manner of speech, observing how Danzō fans himself impatiently. His posture is tense, from the straight line of his shoulders to the slight rise of his chest. He clears his throat and continues without any sense of strain, "Our clan is indebted to Konoha." The true end of his sentence is carefully withdrawn,_ as is Konoha indebted to our clan _._

 _It is caught regardless and picked apart by Danzō's scrutinizing gaze, displayed in the narrowing of his eyes and the light furrow of his brows. Itachi settles himself a bit more upright, places his hands into his lap. Another hollow clunk, a plop as the water gushes down the spout over the rocks into the pond. He catches the happenings from his peripheral. Sweat gathers at the base of his neck from the oppressive heat. Summer is coming to catch up on them._

 _"You understand the elder council must investigate this gossip, as you call it, to ensure the safety of the village." He doesn't come off as downright patronizing, no Shimura Danzō knows the right phrase, the right word to use in order to appear concerned, to appear vigilant. Konoha's watch hound, as statuesque as those guarding the main shrine._

 _His fingers clench the fabric of his dark gray yukata, but his features remain stoic, impassive. "Of course, this goes without saying. I will relay what you have told me to my father." There's not a hint of hesitation in his voice._

Slouching against the wall, he tries to get comfortable in the restraints the white kimono offers him, clutching the note with both hands. It's written in simple cursive, obviously intended to be readable, forgoing most aesthetic in the curve of the stroke or the thickness of a dot. Someone who has a steady hand with the brush made this, Itachi notices almost absentmindedly as his thumb brushes over the character for dawn. He eyes the kodachi that was hidden in the bundle of coarse cloth, eyes the door kept together with iron chain and lock.

There's something scribbled at the bottom, smaller and almost exclusively in hiragana. It was the only thing worthy in the message to make him grab the sword and rise from his spot. – _acknowledging how his chest **burns**._

 _"If we find truth to these rumors…" He snaps his fan shut as he says this. (another clunk,_ hollow, hollow, hollow _) "The punishment will be most dire. Your clan would be committing treason in its most pure and cruel form."_

 _His entire clan would be executed. Something heavy and most vile settles low down his stomach, but he doesn't reach for his tea. One name alone crosses his mind and almost falls from his lips like a sigh._

 _Itachi relaxes his fingers, smoothens over the wrinkled material with a feather-light touch, like a brush stroke over creamy parchment. Not even a twitch at the corner of his mouth, nor a wrinkle between his brows, when he answers solemnly, "If you hurt my little brother in my absence on whatever allegation, mending bonds with Orochimaru and Otogakure will be the least of your concerns, Shimura-san."_

 _There's a hint of a smug smirk playing along the other's lips as the shut fan is lowered and placed on the low table. Sunlight trickles off the gleaming surface in warm reds and browns._

 **Did you know that they are keeping your brother hostage?**

 _"If I were talking to any other man," Danzō begins, beguiling in the depth of his tone of voice, the back of his throat, "I'd be inclined to believe I had heard him admitting a weakness."_

His palms slide over the oldest parts of the chestnut wooden bars, searching blindly but diligently for the rotten pieces. If he recalls correctly –and he does, he knows he _does_ , the western wall of the cell should be more than three decades old and the wooden framework hasn't been repaired since the Uchiha police corps funds have been cut drastically three years ago. The satisfying click of his sword being unsheathed echoes softly and the moonlight gracefully encases the underside of the blade with an almost molten shade of white. One swift strike and two bars disjoint at the bottom, splintered and foul-smelling of rot. His jaw sets locked, he can impossibly maneuver to the outside from the small space offered. Still, he wastes no time in wiggling and tugging the two loose bars completely free. They're dropped unceremoniously to the floor. It may be possible to slice up a third bar and break it apart to give him a wide enough berth to pass.

The steel hits the wood and doesn't even get halfway through the cylinder. His grip on the hilt tightens as he tries to push in deeper, cleaving through the chestnut wood in a sawing motion. Sawdust eddies from the gash in the wood with the motion and Itachi positions himself so his shoulder pushes against the bar but it doesn't _give_ , not yet, not enough. Sweat gleams along the slope of his nose and on his forehead. He's tired and weak from malnourishment but he keeps shoving at the wood as if his life depends on it. Finally, the crack he's been waiting for resounds and there's a slight shift as the bar breaks from the middle and disfigures from straight to crooked, forming the leeway he needed. The pristine white of his kimono is sullied by the moss that's been growing all over the wood, patches of greenish black and a mud brown come to stain his left sleeve from the shoulder downwards.

 _There are no terms of agreement between them, not explicitly at least, when Itachi rises from his seat at the low table and pats down the wrinkles of his yukata along his upper legs with the flat of his fingers. Some loose strands slide along his cheeks and fall along the curve of his jaw. Danzō moves to stand as well, but he does so less gracefully, aware of his aging bones and aching joints. Behind him, the horizon eagerly drags down the sun and all the colors that bleed from orange to salmon pink along with it, only to give way for the night sky. His muted robes stand in contrast to the vibrant spectacle behind them._

 _"Would I be correct in my assumption that you would sacrifice much for your younger brother, Itachi-san?" Danzō inquires, and while his voice has a tinge of fatherliness, his features are composed, stoic._

 _They're at a crossroads, Itachi realizes impassively, and his choice here is the difference between one boy's life and one boy's death. Danzō is_ wrong _, he wouldn't just sacrifice much for his little brother, he'd sacrifice_ everything. _He rightens his posture, despite the stones pressing down his shoulders._

 _And the bamboo spout clunks down onto the stone one more time for Itachi to witness, to hear._

 _"I would do anything for Sasuke." All secrecies and implications and obfuscations are exposed between the two of them, in the dying sunlight. There's no reason to thread carefully, delicately or diplomatically anymore. He made his choice and he's ready to bear the consequences._

He slips through the opening, bracketed by broken and unbroken bars and their grime and moss and they leave their marks on his chest and the flesh of his left cheek. His hair hangs around his face like a tattered changing screen, black with stripes of skin-white. There are three other prison wards, arranged in the directions of the wind and joined with the main guard station at the center, where a stone stairway leads up to the building in five-six steps. When he looks at the station, with its familiar wooden structure and the scratched-through symbol of the Uchiha clan emblazoned above the main entrance, he holds his sheathed _kodachi_ with both of his hands and takes a deep breath and moves close to the walls, taking advantage of the darkness provided by the sloping curve of the roof. His white kimono is going to make him much more easy to spot, so he'll have to take each step deliberately, and remain carefully concealed in shadows.

The first guard was standing with his back to him, busy lighting a contraband cigarette and struggling to keep his match alight. Itachi's lithe form is graceful and fast, but there's muscle in those arms and his elbow hooks almost effortlessly around the guard's throat. A garble escapes him, guttural and shocked as the pressure on his windpipe becomes more urgent. In reflex his hands come up to claw at the arm around his neck, his match and his cigarette long dropped onto the grass below. He crumples from lack of air and stutters forwards on his buckling knees. Itachi guides him down onto the ground and drags him towards the elm tree. He has to get to the southern gate; from there upon he can travel more easily and unobtrusively to the river and follow it down to the old _Sandaime_ inn located at the edge of the forest.

On his right, in the distance, he can hear two more guards chattering excitedly about their standard-issued model 26 pistols. Leaning against the stem of the elm tree, he debates his next move. The _kodachi_ is a comforting weight in his hand, against his hip, almost seductive in its familiarity. One of them turns the pistol over in his palm, shows off how the moonlight gleams on the six round cylinder and boasts about how this particular pistol belonged to some bigshot Uchiha agent before. Now that the positions to the police corps are open to members of all Konoha clans, he says conversationally, the common folk can try their hand at shooting too. Itachi narrows his eyes, tilts his head back until he can feel the cool bark of the tree.

"Don't you think that's a bit insensitive to say, Yukimura-san?" This guard sounds younger, aside from the apparent nasal quality of his voice. "I mean, that guy would've murdered everyone if the ANBU Black Ops didn't step in." He harrumphs and reaches up shyly to scratch the back of his neck, "No disrespect meant of course, Yukimura-san!"

Itachi waits for a few more moments, twisting so the moonlight pricking through the foliage of the elm can't fall on any part of his body. He takes strict control of his breathing. Soon enough the two guards get on with their rounds on the trodden-down mud road. They're wearing the Uchiha police corps uniform with some modifications. No time was wasted by the elder council to monopolize the law enforcement offices and equipment, in scratching through the Uchiha fan and painting the symbol of Konoha overhead. He's struck by a feeling of _sonder_ as the guards pass him by, talking much more quietly among each other this time around.

Their thoughts were unguarded in one moment and exposed to him in the next, the dialogue barely scratching the lacquerware surface of what they really think about _him_ and the Uchiha clan and the direction the village is taking and the _ten thousand things_.

They don't notice the unconscious guardsman and Itachi's on the move again, in their opposite direction. His sandals hardly make a sound on the soft summer grass. He has three count-to-tens before the two guards would circle around to the western wall of his ward and find something amiss. It's impossible to leap up the walls and climb over them without any sort of grip available and the layout of the prison compound has kept the distance between the trees and the walls in mind for this purpose. He doesn't know how well the southern gate will be guarded, but in contrast to the simplistic building materials used for the compound walls, the gates were more modern; made from auburn bricks and white cement. Itachi had been six when the gates were erected and he could see how much the break of style displeased his father.

It wasn't allowed to bear the Uchiha crest.

As a child, he had seen his father grit his teeth at the insult and keep quiet, as an adult, he has seen his father finally bare his teeth and die for it.


	3. ii

_I hereby disclaim any rights_

 _._

 _"So you're willing to serve as a scapegoat, Itachi?" The Hokage asks of him, seated on his knees in front of his calligraphy table, gaze somewhere between the young man and the far end of his scroll._

 _He keeps his head downcast. Tomorrow he'll be sent off with the official Konoha delegation to Otogakure and tonight he'll take his goodbyes from his family. Images of a smiling Sasuke well up in front of his eyes, as if the tunnel vision he's currently experiencing only leads to one light, one spark. The Hokage pushes his brush into the ink pot and drags two-three strokes in succession on the parchment. Slowly he creates the character for rain in his own peculiar cursive._

 _This is still all hypothetical, his mind tries to supply him; and while he's certain the ANBU corps has ransacked every Uchiha file in secret by now, eavesdropped on even the most plain conversation between two clan members, tracked and tagged everyone from his very own clan, his clan is still alive._

 _(_ including himself; but he knows such tactics as he has learned them himself; the suspicious ruffle of a leaf, the heavy weight of a hidden glare, the gravity of a light footfall; three years spent in the ANBU force before his clan name restricted him further progress. _All_ Uchiha become police corps members. _)_

 _Nothing concrete has come to the surface yet, but it gleams somewhere on the lacquerware, a scratch of dull silver on warm red. But somewhere the grayscale tilts over to clarity, white; that yes, his clan is dissatisfied and the planning of a coup is not as farfetched a scheme as he once considered it to be. Konoha will not stand for dissent. Konoha will punish treason accordingly and the penalty will be the extermination of his kin. Except for two._

 _"You would be branded as a traitor to our village, branded as the murderer of your clan. You would know only dishonor and infamy from that point onwards." The Hokage continues in his gravelly voice as he continues the verse of the poem in smooth strokes._ ame ni mo makezu.

 _Itachi slowly looks up at him, fingertips pressed into the tatami mat and pressed deeper when he meets the Hokage's eyes. His conviction is clear when he states, "As long as Konoha cherishes my brother and honors my clan's name, I care not for myself."_

 _Pensively, the Hokage rubs the sawdust stubble on his chin with his thumb as he gracefully moves his brush over the scroll._ kaze ni mo. _His bloodless bottom lip gets pulled into his mouth and popped out._ makezu. _Vertical lines of flawless calligraphy, a poem both worth of admiration in style, verse and message. How fitting, the Hokage ponders before shifting his gaze from the paper to the young man in front of him._ yuki ni mo, natsu no atsusa ni mo makenu.

 _"Let us both hope such a sacrifice will never be necessary, Itachi-san. I have faith in your clan." Sarutobi Hiruzen says softly, as he motions to the sealed scroll on his right. He tries to be sincere, tries to muster up an old man's kindness, as if the wars and the horrors of his own memories do not trouble his judgement._

 _He takes the sealed scroll with both his hands, pushes his forehead against the Konoha seal in subservience. "Not losing to rain, not losing to wind. Not losing to both the snow and the heat of summer.. It's a long poem, lord Hokage." Itachi muses aloud as he recalls all the stanzas. It's composed in a rather modern style, no longer fettered by classical desires._

 _"I'm quite fond of it, Itachi-san. It's trully inspirational." He replies, trying desperately to keep the tremble out of his hands. His mouth twitches into a sorrowful smile, two-parts apologetic and one part desolate. "Fulfill your duties well." Hiruzen says as he uncharacteristically holds eye-contact with him, "You are dismissed."_

Two two-storied watchtowers and two smaller iron gates bracket the main archway in the center. Electric wires are looped along the brick stone pillars and clipped to the ornaments on the archway. Itachi spots two modified _arata_ lanterns, shimmering a beige white in the moonlight, positioned on each side of the main gate. Black wires are attached to their mushroom-like caps and power the disintegration mechanism behind the stone-checkered bars. His gaze follows the coiling wires to the charge machination containing the whale oil tank. Arc pylons were an invention of Orochimaru, who despite the opposition of his former colleagues, found a way to transfigure the energy distillated from the whale oil into a highly potent weapon. Only Konoha-issued scientists know the exact scientific details of the inner workings of the arc pylons, but it seemed to have been a collaborative effort between the use of natural resources, such as jade and whale oil, and the use of advanced mechanics adapted from the west. Since his exile, Orochimaru has been cut off from most of the scientific progress developed within Konoha and his own work has suffered in result.

Itachi bites the inside of his cheek in displeasure, if he gets within the detection frame of the arc pylon censors he'll be disintegrated. His best bet would be to disable the pylons by removing the whale oil tank from the power module and then slip through one of the smaller gates. His gaze falls upon the three guards hanging around the left stone pillar. They'll need to be distracted and taken care of one by one. Itachi crouches and feels the ground for a rock large enough to knock someone out with. His fingers bump into a sizeable pebble with a smooth texture. It's not a particularly heavy weight in his palm but it'll do. He aims for the guard leaning against the pillar, the one with his arms crossed over his chest. Moonlight catches in the brass buttons on his uniform jacket. He narrows his eyes in concentration as he throws the rock up once, catches it, throws it up again, _catches it again_ , and on the third go strikes from his sheltered spot in the shadows.

The two other guards shout out in surprise when the rock pelts against the third one's forehead and leaves him stumbling to his knees while clutching his bleeding brow. Blood streams through the cracks of his fingers and his shoulders are shaking from shock. Itachi places his hand on the hilt of his kodachi in anticipation as one of the three guards comes storming into his direction. He's gauged the depth of the shadows and knows precisely how far he can venture from the black to the gray to the exposure of the moonlight. The other guard is trying to settle his hurt colleague into a sitting position, examining the wound. Faintly, the buzzing of the electric wires sizzles under all the commotion, like an excited heartbeat.

"Who's here?! Show.." The guard pauses as he sweeps his gaze over the expanse of the darkness, punctuated by the darkened stems of the elm trees, "Show yourself!"

When he was a member of the ANBU forces, enlisted on personal recommendation of the Hokage before some members of the elder council voiced their complaints and had him forcibly retired, he had shown great potential in what was considered the art of assassination. It would be so terribly easy to click his sword free and stab the guard through the back of his throat, force his blade clean through the guard's cervical spine and twist, just _that_ little bit. Itachi slams his sheathed sword to the front of the guard's throat and grounds the man against his chest, making the difference in height redundant as he chokes the air out of his windpipe. There's some struggle and the bulk of the man drives back against Itachi in a panicked reflex, but the chokehold is relentless and the steel beneath the wooden sheathe is unyielding. Eventually the guard goes slack and his heavy knees thud against the dirt.

He's not going to expose himself to the other two just yet because to his own dismay, he finds that he needs to catch his breath. The muscles in his arms are aching from exertion, exhaustion. They've purposely kept him weak in his cell. As he looks onto the brick archway, he notices that the guard he pelted with the rock lies slumped against the pillar, with his comrade crouched beside him, tending his wound. Itachi isn't sure if he cracked the guard's brow bone, eyebrows tend to bleed heavily no matter the graveness of the injury. – _but he stunned them into vigilance._ Time to draw out the second guard, he thinks as he eyes the thick branches of the old elm tree to his right.

Climbing is more exhausting than he'd thought; the soles of his black sandals offer no good grip and the fabric of his white kimono gets stuck to the small twigs, the bark of the tree feels rough under his fingertips and some leaves nestle into his unruly black hair. He steadies the large branch between his thighs and starts to rock forwards, until the entire treetop dances along his motions. This certainly catches the guards' attention and the second one, after pressing a comforting hand to the shoulder of the wounded one, gets up and draws his pistol from the leather holster around his upper leg.

"Akane-san? Is that you?" He questions, taking a hesitating step into the approaching darkness as the clouds curl coyly in front of the moon and block its bountiful light. "Did you get him?! Akane-san?!"

Itachi waits patiently, watching how the guard acts like the _betobeto-san_ chases him with audible footsteps, unseen but not unheard. His whole posture is cramped. Resettling himself on the thick branch so his feet are underneath him, Itachi poises himself like a cat, ready to pounce if the guard allows himself so foolish to come much closer. He regards with calculating eyes how the guard sees the unconscious body of his colleague and how the guard recoils, snaps around and points the barrel of his pistol in the opposite direction. Searching, _ever searching._ He allows himself to fall, to collide harshly onto the guard and then they're both sent tumbling onto the cold hard ground and the handgun gets dropped along with them, out of their reach.

"Argh…" Comes the shocked sound from the guard's hoarse throat as he tries to push himself up on his elbows and throw Itachi off of him. The skin of his chin is scraped and bloody from when he smacked down.

Driving his sheathed short sword next to the guard's shaking head, Itachi mutters lowly, "No more words, please."

"You…" He groans out, delving his fingers into the muddy earth and dragging blackness under the crown of his finger nails. His uniform sleeves are dirty with black sand. "Don't kill me, I.. I got a family."

His mouth thins into a straight line as he seats himself more comfortably on the guard's back. Gracefully, he places a few wayward strands behind his right ear and says almost soullessly, "I had one, not so long ago." His other hand comes to grip his _kodachi_ as the guard lets out an almost pitiful whimper. "But I'm not going to kill you."

With one harsh thunk, he smacks the hilt down onto the back of the guard's head, effectively driving his face into the black earth once more. Some drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and shimmers faintly, ugly in the returned moonlight, pricking between the foliage of the elms. Itachi wipes the trail of blood from the hilt wrappings and prepares to take the last guard out. He comes to curve his shoulders inwards as he steps from the cloying shadows into the open passage before the southern gate, ignoring the startled gasp from the injured guard and the excited thrumming of the electric wires. The _arata_ lanterns flash in a dull green pallor, murky like the jade core inside. His hair falls limply around his cheeks and jaw, obscuring his face. He knows as who he comes across, as _what_ he comes across.

" _Yūrei_." Some strange combination of shock and fear and awe is implied in the guard's tone of voice, dragged out as a ragged gasp. He clenches his eyes shut and tries to reach for his pistol, but his hands are unsteady. In panic, he chokes out, "Stay.. Stay back!"

Disobeying the pained plea, Itachi takes another slow step forwards, trying to look as ghastly and transparent as possible, trying to reach the bloodied stone on the stamped-down earthen path that leads through the archway.

"What did you do to.." Here he takes a sharp inhale, "To Akane-san and Murasaki-san?! Answer.. Answer me!" He yells out while attempting to control the tremors raking his fingers, to control his hands and guide them towards his gun. His eyebrow is still bleeding and the congealed blood is streaked along his eye socket to his cheek.

He calmly lowers himself and hides the stone under his dirtied sleeve as he pretends to bow before the guard. From his peripheral, he catches the arc pylons flashing faster, going from jade green to bleached white to jade green again. The guard tries to push himself up and stands up and staggers forwards, unsteady on his two feet. Itachi clasps the stone and ignores the slickness of blood now stuck to his palm. The wires are _weeping_ in static, soft and incessant. He looks up then, at the guard who stares back at him wide-eyed and scrambles to grab his gun. With one smooth movement, the rock hits him between his brows and leaves him stumbling for coherence. Itachi jolts upwards and knocks the sharp of his elbow against the guard's collar bone. He buckles over in pain and one swift kick of his heel to the back of his head suffices to render him unconscious. The fabric of his white kimono is torn and reveals part of his upper leg.

Trudging over to the power module where the electric wires are looped together in a pile with two outliers stretching out to the arc pylons, Itachi sinks down to his knees ( _dirtying his kimono even more_ ) and pulls the whale oil tank out by the red-painted wooden handle. The light of the arc pylons dims down to blankness and they return to being harmless _arata_ lanterns once more. He gathers his _kodachi_ against his side, takes a deep breath and walks through the main open gateway.

 _"If I might be so bold before I leave." Itachi begins as he resettles himself on his knees and curves his palms over his kneecaps. His tone of voice is low and his gaze falls on the border between the orange light of the oil lamp and the shadows of the alcove of the room. Something glints in the darkness there._

 _Hiruzen pinches his calligraphy brush between the tip of his index finger and thumb as he begins another stanza of his poem. "Hhm?" It's a prompting rumble and it oddly reminds Itachi of a brooding toad._

 _"You are undoubtedly aware that if everything we have discussed indeed occurs, lord Hokage, I must have a way to ensure my younger brother's safety beyond everything." His words make Hiruzen cock his head to stare at him. The light reflects the old man's bone structure, highlights the outline of his skull in an oily orange._

 _He pensively rubs his chin and states gravely, "I have given you my word, Itachi-san."_

 _Itachi gives him an inclination of the head in return, a ghost of a smile playing along the corners of his mouth. He catches another silver glint of something in the darkness of the alcove and his suspicions that somebody_ (ANBU) _is eavesdropping on them get confirmed in the subtle play of light on steel._

 _"And I value your word highly." He responds politely as he bows his head even lower. "But my brother will survive you and your promise to me, whereas that will leave me dead and my soul uncertain, restless. So I have taken my precautions to ease myself beyond my death." His voice doesn't shake, his posture doesn't shift and he continues calmly, "I have arranged that if something happens to Sasuke, confidantes loyal to me will spread delicate information to the other hidden villages."_

 _The Hokage slowly dips his brush into the ink pot and watches as a drop or two slides off the horse hairs and back into the pot. He murmurs lowly, "As expected from the Uchiha heir." Praise is conveyed in his statement, but also a murky sense of fear. His writing goes on undeterred but there's a light tremor to his wrist, uncovered by the sleeve of his vest._

 _When Itachi cautiously glances at the alcove, he only sees the foggy darkness coiling around the hanging scroll. Whatever ANBU guard stationed there must've slipped away when he spoke._

He gathers his hair in the palm of his right hand and pushes it down his neck to keep some strands from falling in between the collar of his kimono. According to the note, a representative of the Akatsuki will wait for him at the main crossroads to Shūmatsu no Tani, by the _chimata no kami_ pillar. He tucks the note back into the inside of his _obi_ and treks onwards, following the main road south to the village. Large boulders are situated in a threefold group next to the downtrodden path, the moss and dark sand covering them black in the night. He passes them by without a second glance.

Konohagakure looms as a center of sound and light: the Uchiha compound forms a somber and dreary obstacle to cross and he pushes himself off to scale and climb onto the roofed wall. His former home is close to the tanneries and butcher shops and the smell of torn-open flesh and exposed guts inevitably lingers in the air. Itachi pushes down the uncomfortable thought that it might've also been the mark of his own dead relatives and doesn't dare look if the blood stains have been scrubbed out of the wood of the porch, out of the light-colored clay of the wall. He maintains his balance and walks over to the main entrance of the compound, carefully jumping the sloping roofs of the clan houses and landing with a low thud onto the ground. The Uchiha crest is scribbled over with the character for death with red paint. His fingers twitch and a shallow breath escapes his lips. There are no cicadas crying in the barberry bushes. Everything is too quiet.

His guilt threatens to cloud his cognitive functions but he staggers onwards regardless, knowing he has to cross at least a part of the Namikaze district to reach the road that branches off to the forest, following the river. Electric wires dangle overhead, attached to a public power module bolted shut on the ground against the wall of the Yamanaka flower shop, but the pale glow of the whale oil tanks shimmers behind the iron bars and the double glass. The villagers always attach their red paper lanterns to the wires as if they were harmless strings and light up the streets with a strange combination of tradition and modernity. There are less shadows here for Itachi to lurk through so he opts to clamber onto the flat roofs of the brick houses and move onwards from there. Next to the power module are a number of closed wooden crates he can use as leverage to get to the low overhang.

The thick fabric of the overhang feels unsteady underneath his feet but he can maneuver quickly enough to the roof of the neighboring store and continue his way along the main road. He pauses when he hears people chattering below and the dull plop of a pasting brush mopping down the wall. Curiously, he dares to peer over the ledge of the flat roof and sees two store clerks putting up posters. Whale meat on sale. Some things never change. Itachi doesn't particularly care much for the conversation, but he catches the words _impending_ and _threat of war_ and _provisions_. His mouth straightens into a thin line and he pushes himself back into safety and takes advantage of the height that the building provides him. During his imprisonment, no news about a possible war outbreak reached him and he can't think of anything valuable to be gained by destroying one of the peace treaties with one of the other villages. Not during this immense industrialization boom that the country has been experiencing, at least.

 _Sasuke_ is more important, he resolves as he drops down onto the adjoining house and then further down into the back alley. His sandals make a low thud as he lands. Barely any of the warm light of the lanterns reaches into the corridor, instead it falls in the empty space between two walls, dancing coyly with the darkness. One rat screeches as it passes by his feet and escapes towards the open expanse of the street. He witnesses only a flash of dark glossy fur and a pink wormy tail as it disappears from sight. Itachi clutches the hilt of his sword tightly, carefully checks the perimeters for any villagers and scampers along the street towards the red clay gate. Strips of his torn kimono ghost over his legs as he runs and it feels like something is continually trying to pull him back, keep him within the enveloping confines of Konoha. Bile clots his throat when he manages to get outside, as if the stone weight on his stomach pushed all the vileness back upwards through his esophagus.

He smells the peculiar combination of the polluted river and the fresh pines and firs of the forest as he goes down the gravel road. Moonlight reflects onto the surface of the river, where the algal bloom shines a clover green, but the water on the contrary remains dark and thick-looking, not at all how it was two years ago. Memories of evening walks with his little brother overtake him. His right palm suddenly feels empty without the clasping of a smaller, smoother hand. His kodachi does not feel the same. It will take him half an hour to reach the main crossroads to Shūmatsu no Tani and forty minutes more to arrive at the Sandaime inn, but it'd be in his best interest to walk parallel with the path instead of on it, to wander in between the trees.

There's no complete silence in the forest like there was at the Uchiha compound: the soft rustling of leaves or the crunching of twigs manages to prick through the dense quiet with the subtlety of needlepoints. Itachi stills when something big rushes through the bushes and in the dim moonlight he can vaguely make out the silhouette of a deer as it barrels onwards into the opacity of the forest. His mind combs through his memories with painstaking precision to lose his track of time. When he arrives at the crossroads and sees the stone pillar of the _chimata no kami_ , there's a soft smile curling along the corners of his mouth. Sasuke used to race him to this very place when they were kids and occasionally he'd indulge and allow him to win.

 _"You weren't just pretending to be tired, were you_ aniki _?" He asks him wide-eyed as he leans against the dark gray pillar. Sunlight catches his flushed cheeks and the sheen of sweat gleaming on his pale forehead._

 _Itachi brushes his bangs behind his ear and offers his little brother a kind smile. It's not that hot out yet, but his loose shirt sticks to his torso from the short run and the inside of his knees are slick and wet from sweat. Tonight is his inauguration ceremony as ANBU captain, an honor that hadn't befallen an Uchiha clan member before. His father had been this prickly combination of proud and irritated, as if this was just a half-hearted attempt at bridging the divide between the village and the clan._

 _Sasuke had clutched his hand when they were strolling through the Namikaze district and the villagers were whispering about them, in front of them._ The Uchiha clan has always had a touch of darkness within them. _Maybe that's why their heir is the youngest ANBU captain to date. It had taken much of Sasuke's self-control not to talk back and defend his older brother's honor._

 _"They shouldn't be talking about you like that, aniki!"He complains once they're in the forest._

 _In hindsight the villagers were right: his promotion wouldn't last. Itachi had suspected as much, but he couldn't explain such matters to Sasuke, not with that cross look on his face and that much frustration in his voice. He had only smiled secretively then. And squeezed his hand._


End file.
